The Rose Patch
by Astrid Sonja
Summary: The year is 1929, the height of the roaring 20s. DaCrannole, the city's brand new gang, obtains a night club called the Rose Patch and a rather successful underground speakeasy. Damien/Pip, Craig/Tweek, Mole/Gregory, Kenny/Kyle.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own the cartoon South Park, nor am I affiliated with the creators, Matt Stone and Trey Parker, in any way what so ever. This piece if purely a work of fiction.

**Author's Notes**: Even though this is the first chapter, I would still like to thank my wonderful writer friends,** tazrr.** and **trulybliss08** as they gave me very helpful suggestions and ideas that contributed greatly to the creation of this new story.

**The Rose Patch**

Chapter One

Smooth hardened rubber white side walled tires slowly tumbled over the brick layered avenue, crushing glass bottles and heaps of trash with maximum ease in its way. The eight brilliant front lights embedded on the car's front hood and grill shined brightly into the dark atmosphere around them, skillfully showing off passerby buildings, low level food stands, bars and restaurants. Beneath fifteen foot tall solid iron styled lampposts, the car's newly painted black body glistened under the still white lights; a lonely glowing feet of astonishment amongst the dirty ghettos nearby.

The 1932 Packard Ninth Series De Luxe Eight 904 sedan limousine pulls off to the side of the street, stopping only in the space of a perfect inch and a half before settling comfortably next to the curb. The glossy front passenger side door clicks open and immediately thereafter, a brand new pair of buttoned black and crème spats step from inside the limousine down to the long white running board. Within one more step, the shoes are on the ground; one foot balanced precariously on the dirty curb whilst the other stomps out a used up old cigarette bud. Stepping up, the feet travel three feet from the car to the middle of the sidewalk. Instantly, the shadowed man's body is revealed under the bright street posts. With a few quick turns of his head, messy dark brown hair wiping from side to side as it covers nearly half his face at a time, he scans the ghetto area with particular interest. "We're clear," the deep voice of the man slurs as he reaches into the pockets of his pinstriped black and silver pants to pull out a pack of newly stolen Camel cigarettes. He throws one to his lips and reaches back into his pocket to both set the pack back and pull out a nearly emptied small box of matches. Curiously finding it to be his last match, the man quickly lights it and throws the box carelessly over his shoulder, the box completely becoming forgotten as it falls between broken cracks in the sidewalk. He brings the match up, cups his fingerless gloved hands from the light breeze around him and takes in a deep breath, the light immediately catching. He takes a drag and pulls the cigarette from his face, deep streams of billowing smoke falling from his thin, light pink lips and perfectly curved skip sloped nose.

"Now we're on the trolley, Delorne!" A holler of excitement leaps wildly from the loud mouth of a second individual. The man throws the driver's side door wide open and leaps out onto the brick layered street, slamming it shut with great might and strolling to the sidewalk with ease, all the while, matching black and crème colored spats tapping against the pavement. He sets himself next to the smoking man and smirks, yellow teeth shining dully in the wake of false florescent lights. "We're a little early. Party hasn't even started yet." The man lifts his hands to his head, promptly removing the black satin fedora hat and running his skinny fingers through mounds of uncared for dirty blonde hair. He places the hat back onto his head and shoves his hands down deep into the suit's pockets.

"Dry up, McCormick," the smoking man swiftly counteracts. He reaches up and places the cigarette to his lips before diving his hand down to reach into his pocket. Attaching his fingers to the silver metal chain securely fastened to his pants, he pulls and out slide a perfect silver encrusted watch. Reviewing the time with some interest for about a minute, he slides it back into his pocket. "Get ze 'eaters." Without even noting the other's slight disgust to the previous two comments, the smoking man reaches up and grabs the cigarette, pointing it dully in the direction of the back doors of the Packard.

Kenny McCormick scowls but obeys the commands put forth by the other man, instantly stepping away from the other and back to the expensive Packard car. Mumbling something idly to himself, he steps up onto the running board with one foot and throws open the back side suicide door. Quickly reaching inside, he pulls two heavy weapons out before closing the door, promptly shutting it off from the rest of the world. Quickly turning around, the smirk on his face grows wider. "Now Christophe, I'm goin' to be a gentleman here and ask which one you want," Kenny cocks his head to the side and loosens the grip he has on the elongated weapon in his right hand, twisting the long block of wood ruthlessly in his slack grip. Without even having to witness the look on the other's face and only the newly outstretched hand, Kenny tosses the heavy digging device into the air and watches as Christophe catches the shovel, fingerless gloves instantly gripping against the metal handle. Kenny hoists the metal weapon in both hands, fingers tickling against the long barrel of the M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle. "Got any cartridges, Mole?" He asks as he leans the butt of the gun up, pointed toward the dark night's sky. He reaches into his pockets and finds nothing but a few rolled up dollar bills, turning then back to his partner. Without even so much as a second, a box of copper rifle cartridges is thrown to his body. Without managing to drop the gun, Kenny throws his hand out, grabbing at the shells before they hit the ground. "Much obliged, Mole." Kenny grabs the 9.3x62mm cartridges and begins loading them into the rifle, stuffing the box into his own pocket once the deed is done.

"Ze are coming," Christophe DeLorne quietly mumbles, his sharp green eyes noticing just barely, the vague hint of bright gleaming headlights down the distance of the road. "Ze are coming," he repeats as he takes one last drag from his Camel cigarette and throws it to the ground. Lifting his foot, he presses it firmly to the soon to be flattened stick and stomps, gently nudging it to the side where the other cigarette had fallen. The whites of his eyes disappear as he tilts his head to the sky, streams of white smoke wafting from the depths of his mouth.

Just moments later, the roar of a car engine hollers from down the street. Within a minute, the exact same car pulls up behind the first, bright lights still shining as Kenny and Mole simultaneously squint their eyes at the glowing nuisance. Though once the lights shut off and the thundering engine dies, they find themselves looking at the near pitch black darkness that was the color of the Packard vehicle. Immediately after, the front driver's door slides open and out steps a tall, lean man, black disheveled hair covered almost entirely by the navy blue fedora thrown to his head. Once stepping in front of the car and getting a quick glimpse of the other two still standing on the sidewalk, the man smiles, crooked yellow teeth flashed in a grin. "Why hello ladies," the man slurs, lifting his middle finger just once to the brim of the hat and tipping his head down, putting the velvet red hat he held in his other hand onto his stomach in some form of polite bow. "Glad to see you haven't started without us."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Tucker," Kenny comments as he leans the gun to the ground, body leaning against the tall weapon.

With a snort of laughter, Craig Tucker strolls onto the sidewalk and to the back rear suicide door. Tipping his head back down, covering his view now in complete darkness, he fingers the metal door handle and lifts, slowly allowing free viewing access into the vehicle. On the inside of the door, as well as lining mostly the entire area of the car itself, dark red leather lay perfectly still. Along with that, the quick glimpse of a quite peculiar looking diamond encrusted symbol stuck to the ceiling.

Without having any more time to even look at the wonder that was the brand new Packard car, one foot steps out from the vehicle, landing perfectly down upon the matching dark red color of the running board. The red and black spats tap against the board before shifting down to the brick layered street below. After that, two boney, malnourished hands grip either side of the door, fingernails scratching horribly at the priceless black paint adoring the car's body. The fingers tense against the door panels and immediately thereafter, an entire suit clad body slowly climbs out of the car. Once outside of the car, the tall man sticks one hand out toward Craig, wickedly pale palms outstretched. The deep red hat is immediately set upon his hands and the man gives off a quick grin, sharpened white teeth visible even in the current low light levels of the dimming lampposts. With a quick swoop of his hands, the darkened man streaks back his already gelled hair and lies the hat perfectly down upon his head, successfully covering up most of the dark, black locks. He takes one quick step away from the car and lifts his head, "Evenin' gentlemen," he eloquently expresses, his deep brown, nearly black eyes falling to the faces of every single one of his team. "Quite the lovely evening, isn't it?" He instantly lifts his head further toward the sky and takes in a deep breath, cold autumn air running down the inside of his body. His eyes flicker over nearly each and every bright star visible in the night's sky before smirking once again. "Quite the lovely evening indeed." Only somewhat startled by the loud closing of the car door, the man lowers his head back down to Earth, eyes viewing curiously over the look of his team.

"Bonsoir Monsieur Thorn," Christophe comments softly, his deep French accent laced with just the slight hint of excitement as he tips his head down in a customary recognition to his boss. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kenny tip his head as well, dirty blonde hair falling from the crevices of his black hat. He turns his attention back to that of the dark man and nods, "I do 'ope your ride over 'ere was quite satisfactory." He turns his head only slightly back to Kenny as he hears the subtle bit of a snort coming from his teammate's direction.

Damien Thorn lifts both hands and begins adjusting his black and red pinstriped suit, running his palms over the smooth length of the fabric as he attempts to remove any possible crease set in from the car ride. "Craig is quite the most interesting of company," he comments, taking a side glance back to the driver of the vehicle. "It was quite satisfactory, believe me." He takes a step onto the sidewalk and grins, "It is perfect, Christophe." He looks up toward the large two story brick building in front of him and smiles, dark eyes trailing over the long series of dark green vines hauling up the side with much interest. His eyes linger downward to the large cursive written sign posted just five feet above the large, blocky door. "The Rose Patch," he states, his smile turning into that of a full grin as sharp teeth shimmer in the light. "How very fitting." Crossing his arms over his chest he leans back, eyes dead set of the three men in front of him. "Kenny, Christophe, Craig, shall we then?" Damien watches with much interest as the group immediately disperses, Kenny and Craig returning to the vehicle to retrieve more firearms where as Christophe moves to the front door of the unusually popular night club.

"Ze door is locked," Christophe mutters softly as he takes a glance behind him to find Kenny and Craig both a feet away. Looking further back, he nods to Damien and cocks his head to the side.

"You know what to do," Damien says back as he reaches into the pockets of his pinstriped pants to pull out a full pack of cigarettes similar to those Christophe held in his own pants. He sets one gracefully to his lips and turns over to Kenny, smirking as the man already held a lit match between his thumb and pointer finger. With a quick mutter of thanks, Damien finds his cigarette lit for him and the match thrown carelessly to the ground beside him.

Christophe clutches the nearly rusted over shovel in his hands and immediately swings it to the large metal door, the door seemingly vibrating under the large hit from the weapon. Within seconds, the rectangular eyehole slides open and a pale face appears, eyes completely bloodshot and droopy from most likely days of no sleep. "Whatcha want?" The figure asks to which Christophe merely cocks his head to the side and smiles. "In." With the simple word out of the way, Christophe slams the head of the shovel back against the door, this time at the bland copper locked handle. After two successful swings, the lock falls to the ground beside his feet and he throws his foot to the door, slamming it open with one try. As he takes a step in, he hears the painful groans of the doorman as he lies helplessly on the plush red carpet. "We are clear," he calls back as his eyes roam the area of the front room. He takes a step to the side and watches as Kenny and Craig step forward followed by Damien, to which he immediately follows as he falls into line behind the boss.

Kenny lifts one hand to his neck as he pulls the dying red colored handkerchief up to cover the lower portion of his face, the fabric lying just below the end tip of his pointed nose. Without being told, he cocks the gun in his hand and immediately begins scanning the small area of the front room, noticing vaguely to his left as Craig does the same. The only thing inside, beside the doorman lying completely still on the ground, was a little booth situated right next to a coat closet. When they determine the room to be safe, he walks over to the door on the side wall and kicks it open, the large beautifully decorated main room of the club immediately put into plain view. A low whistle escapes Kenny's puckered lips, his hazel eyes growing in excitement.

The night club was a large open room with giant dark black marble pillars lining the entire stretch; from the front door where the gang currently stood to the enormous stage laid out in the back. The ceiling had an oval like look to it, managing to round the entire room off just right with it's beautifully, elaborated painted ceiling and rococo styled carvings. Contrasting greatly, yet just perfect to the ceiling above, newly polished multicolored marble floors shined wonderfully under the dimly lit candles placed on every single circular table (that were currently pushed to the side to give the main dance floor a much more open feel). Kenny, mouth still open in complete shock, lowered his gun and walked excitedly into the room. His hazel eyes scanned every little portion of the room, the same low whistle falling from the corner of his lips. "Damn, boss," he mutters as he makes his way to the center of the room, looking curiously down at his clothes for only a brief moment as little shiny specs of light adore his perfectly tailored suit. His gaze follows upwards to the source of the light and his mouth immediately hangs open at the sight of the expensive, antique chandelier hanging by a simple cord from the ceiling.

Out from the end of the room, Damien steps, one hand placed comfortably in his pocket as he scans the area around him, cigarette still placed in his mouth. With a nod of approval, he turns to his next in command and smirks. "Charming, isn't it?" He questions, turning merely his eyes to look over at Christophe. He only receives that of a nod from the other man. "So now where is…" Damien trails off, removing his hands from his pockets as his eyes begin scanning the room for something in particular.

"Over here, Mr. Thorn!" Craig loudly calls out, knocking the butt of his Thompson submachine gun against a wood door with a small glass window. It takes all of a minute for Damien to stroll leisurely at his own pace from the front door of the room to the area around Craig. When the boss finally does make it to the door, he cocks his head to the side, dark blue fedora tipped to the wooden door. "I do believe this is the door you were lookin' for," he says in a bland, dull voice yet laced perfectly with a thick southern Louisiana accent. When Damien takes a step forward to the door, Craig takes one back, immediately falling into place between Christophe and Kenny.

Damien lifts his left hand to the door, a simplified calm demeanor stretched over his face as he knocks tenderly against the wood. When a few moments pass and there is yet to be an answer, Damien scoffs and knocks again. At last, when his patience finally began to grow thin, he turns to Craig, a determined look on his face. "Tear it down," he states simply, teeth dead set in a large scowl. With much interest, he watches Craig lift the submachine gun and pull the trigger, a .45 ACP cartridge with a full metal jacket tearing from the gun to the conveniently locked office door. After he is finished, he throws the gun over his shoulder, the strap attached resting perfectly against the shoulder of his suit jacket. With only his foot, Damien slowly opens the door and smirks, the view in front of him everything he was expecting. "Good evening, Mr. Boyett."

Inside the small office was a simple suit clad man, a stack of papers in one hand and a bottle of something in the other (though judging from the label printed neatly on the bottle, Damien's instant guess was alcohol). Quickly scanning the room, Damien walks through the doorway and into the office, seating himself down in the simple four legged wooden chair in front of the desk. With a quick motion of his left hand, the three men fall in the door and stand behind him, each wearing matching faces of determination.

"Mr. Thorn, I presume." Trent Boyett mutters as he lifts his dark eyes from the sheets of paper in front of him. He takes a quick swig from the drink, the drink Damien is now sure to be alcohol, and scowls. Releasing his hold on the bottle, he shoves it to the corner of his desk and rests his hands together in a clasp.

"So glad you know who I am." Damien mutters, eyes trailing over the papers in front of him. "I take it you know why I'm here then." He takes a quick drag from his cigarette and blows the smoke out to the man at the desk

"The last five letters I've received from your lawyer no doubt tell me everything," Trent responds, fingers tapping against one another repeatedly. His eyes close for but a moment as smoke fills his senses.

"No doubt."

Trent's face wrinkles in discomfort. "My answer still stands, Thorn. No."

Damien crosses one leg over the other and leans back in the chair. His eyes narrow into that of slim slits and his grin turns into that of a large frown. "Now, Mr. Boyett, how would I have known that?" With a quick flick of the wrist, he leans across the table and grabs one of the sheets of paper. "After all, you never responded back. What was I supposed to assume?"

Trent coughs uncomfortably and reaches over to retrieve the paper from Damien's grasp. "I was getting to that, tonight as it were."

"Were you now?" Damien asks curiously, a somewhat irritated look on his face as he finds his own letter stolen point blank out of his hands. He rests them back into his lap.

"My lawyer's out of town, you see," Trent finds himself stuttering nervously as he runs a tanned hand through the curls of blonde hair resting on his head, Damien's blunt words making the man extremely nervous. "But I am still unwilling to accept your offer, you see."

"Is he now?" Damien smirks to himself, his sharp ears almost picking up the clattering of teeth coming from the nervous man's mouth as well as the repeated clicking of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Mr. Boyett, must I, as before, repeat to you exactly what I am willing to give to you in exchange for your wonderful establishment?" With no answer from the man at the desk, Damien sighs and lifts his hand, his fingertips lazily digging under his nail beds in boredom. "Mr. Boyett, I am willing, almost immediately after you give me the deed to your nightclub, to give you a fair share of stock with my family's banking company. In addition to that, a custom, high position job at one of my family's diamond dealers in the city complete with a high paying salary and a high rise apartment in the building of your choice." Damien lets his fingers drop back down to his lap.

"I won't take it," Trent says, his eyes matching Damien's in angry slits. "Now please, if you would just leave, I'll have my men show you out." Two men, dressed in what Damien would harshly call beggars clothing, walk into the room and over to the corner of the office, their eyes immediately looking up the three armed men behind Damien, grand scowls formed over their faces. "Goodnight, Mr. Thorn."

Damien crosses his arms over his chest and obstinately remains in his place on the uncomfortable chair. "Please. With the exception of your homeless brigade there in the corner, we're all gentlemen here. There's no need for any of us to get irritated or upset about anything." Instantly after the words fall from Damien's lips, the larger of Trent's men lifts their gun and points it directly to Damien's head. "Mr. Boyett, I'm being nice. Tell your man to put the gun down." Trent refuses and such and Damien listens carefully, hearing the man's gun click. With a snap of his thumb and pointer finger, Damien can hear the loud smack of metal guns click behind his head as his two men point their weapons to the men on the other side of the room. "I hardly think you'll want to clean or find someone to clean my guts off your floor, Mr. Boyett, so how about we settle this peacefully and have your boys play outside with my boys while we parents have a little chat. Damien watches as Trent seems to think about the suggestion. At last, he watches as Trent turns his head and dismisses the two from the office, Damien ushering his out at the same exact time. Once the door falls closed (as best it could from being nearly blown off earlier), Damien stands from the chair. "I am the richest man in this city, do you know that? I can get you anything, anything at all that your heart desires and maybe even a little bit more. Now tell me, what is it you want from me?"

"I want you to leave. I'm not giving you this club Mr. Thorn and dare I say that is final."

Damien leans forward and smacks his hands down upon Trent's desk. Quickly, in a burst of anger, he shoves everything off the desk with one swipe of his suit clad arm; papers instantly flying off, the beer bottle bursting into a thousand pieces onto the floor, and the phone busting in two almost instantly. "Mr. Boyett, I am not leaving this place until it's mine. If it comes down to it and I have to skin you alive with a rusted up old butter knife in brutal torture in exchange for the deed to this building, I will. If I have to go out of my way to find all your friends and all your women and children and chop their bodies' in little tiny pieces and feed them to my dogs back home, I will. Mr. Boyett, if you don't give me this building, you will be very, very sorry." He begins tapping his fingers against the cheap wooden desk. "Do I make myself clear?" Lifting one hand, Damien smothers the cigarette onto the table, leaving ash all over in decorative patterns on the wood. "Very, very clear?"

"My decision is final, Damien Thorn. You will not have this building!" Trent calls out, standing up from the desk quickly, the alcohol infiltrating his body instantly giving him a wobbly sensation.

"If that is your final decision, Mr. Boyett, then I can only do one thing." Damien presses his lips together and whistles sharply, the noise traveling out of the office into the main dance hall. A second later, Damien squints his eyes and listens to the hail of gunfire from the other room. The immediate sound of bodies hitting the floor calls a second later and Damien watches with morbid fascination as Trent's face falls, his skin instantly going from the healthy tan it was moments before to a deathly pale color. "Christope!" Damien yells, waiting just a few moments before the other man walks into the room, bloodied shovel in one hand, an unknown gun in the other.

"Yes, Mr. Thorn?"

"Please escort Mr. Boyett here to the back of the building." Damien watches as Christophe drops the gun in his hand to the floor and stomps over to the desk, grabbing harshly onto the collar of Trent's white dress shirt. "This is the offer you can't possibly refuse, Mr. Boyett. Tell me where the deed to this building is and perhaps I will consider sparing you your life." Upon hearing nothing but soft whimpers fall from Trent's lips, Damien smiles and urges Christophe out the door. With a deep sigh of content, Damien lifts a hand up to fix his deep red tie and straightens out his suit coat jacket. Walking around the edge of the desk, he plants himself firmly into the chair and throws his clasped hands onto the wood, fingertips gently tapping against the light bumps of his knuckles. "Well, Rose Patch, it would seem you have finally found your Thorn." From his desk, Damien closes his eyes and listens in to the sounds around him; the open heaving of the back door, the second hail of gunfire and metal head of a shovel beating against something as hard as brick, the sound of a body slumping and dare he even say, the sound of a last hopeless breath fall from the lips of an innocent man. "What a lovely evening indeed."


End file.
